


enough to endure this

by buttered_onions



Series: Find Home Again: Shiro Week 2017 [3]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, M/M, Shiro Week 2017, please note: slightly graphic description of an injury, the Soulmark AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-24
Updated: 2017-11-24
Packaged: 2019-02-05 20:37:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,916
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12801888
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/buttered_onions/pseuds/buttered_onions
Summary: The words on Shiro's forearm are completely illegible.Predictably, Ulaz also cannot read the words on his own wrist.A fill for Shiro Week 2017, day five: isolation/companion.





	enough to endure this

**Author's Note:**

> [gitwrecked](http://gitwrecked.tumblr.com) is entirely to blame for this one. Absolutely entirely.
> 
>  **Please note:** there is a semi-graphic description of an injury near the end of the fic. Thanks!

The words on Shiro’s forearm are completely illegible.

It’s undeniably a soulmark, though, despite that no one can read it. The strange script appeared right on schedule when he was twelve, block symbols slanting up the underside of his wrist and spiraling up his forearm nearly to the elbow. Most people’s soulmarks only cover the skin at their wrist: some over, some under. Everyone’s soulmark is different. Some are long enough to trail up the arm in neat or sloppy letters, cursive or text or every variant under the sun. Shiro’s parents share each other’s kanji, marching straight down the undersides of their wrists - his father’s on the right, his mother’s on the left. When they hold hands, they are united. That’s usually the way this works. 

There are people whose soulmarks are in foreign languages, of course. It’s inevitable on a planet this diverse. His parents took him to a specialist when the words first appeared, seeking translation. Shiro remembers obediently holding his arm out in the dim light of the specialist’s lab. He remembers wincing as graveled hands took his forearm, as long fingers twisted his arm carefully around to peer at the - the letters. He remembers the specialist’s frown.

“Hmmm,” the specialist said, and that was the moment Shiro knew he was in trouble.

It started a spiral of research that’s never been answered. The words on his arm aren’t any form of Japanese. They aren’t Chinese, Korean, or anything even remotely related. They aren’t English; they certainly aren’t German. They aren’t any kind of Arabic script, they aren’t Greek, and they definitely aren’t even ancient Egyptian hieroglyphs, not that Shiro’s looked. The symbols on Shiro’s forearm are blocky, random, and numerous. Whatever the words on his arm are - and they _are_ words, they _have to be -_ no one can read them.

The irony is that even though he’s far from a textbook case, Shiro has yet to find a single study on soulmarks that _doesn’t_ concern him. Literally. Photos of his arm have appeared in countless linguistics courses, in textbooks, in studies and newspapers and everything else. He’s a case study, whether or not he wants to be. The one saving grace is that Shiro was a minor when the “mysterious, unreadable soulmark” was discovered. His name isn’t linked with any of the pictures or research that exists. He keeps up with it: his aunt works at a prestigious university, and she sends his parents a bundle of information every so often, keeps him apprised of any developments. It’s been a long time since she sent them anything new. For the most part, Shiro wears long sleeves and tries to get by.

It’s not hard. He’s still an excellent student; still a quick learner and an enthusiastic dreamer. He works his way through the Garrison Academy, studies hard, makes good friends. Matt’s the first person at the Garrison that Shiro shows his soulmark to. Keith is second, a year or so later. No one has any answers, of course, and bit by bit Shiro moves on.

But there are - moments, of course, when he wonders. There are so many moments. As the years go on, one by one the people around him do start finding their soulmates. There’s a longing that yearns in Shiro’s chest when it happens; when a classmate walks through campus with a new friend, holding hands, smiling. Shiro - wants that, a little. Only a little, he tells himself, because it might not happen. He knows that. He knows that. Besides, lots of people don’t have soulmarks, and they’re perfectly happy. Keith is. Matt’s little sister, too. A soulmate isn’t needed for folks to get by.

But Shiro has one. Even if he can’t read it, the symbols on his arm mean _something._ He has a soulmate out there, somewhere. Somehow. He just isn’t sure he’ll ever actually meet them.

Then Kerberos happens.

 

 

Predictably, Ulaz also cannot read the words on his wrist.

They’re simply not in a known language; quite the feat, considering how extensive the Empire’s databases are. The universal translators update automatically when new languages are added - but as the years go on, the language on Ulaz’s wrist has never been included. The words remain, to him and everyone else, illegible.

Most Galra do have soulmarks, written beneath the fine fur of their wrists. Thace and Antok are open with theirs, at least when they’re stationed on the same base. Ulaz has caught a glimpse of Kolivan’s once, too - though not long enough to decipher precisely what language _“so is Zarkon”_ might be written in. No matter. Ulaz has his own problems.

He accepts his assignment from the Blade with ease: he’s excellent at what he does. Ulaz works hard, keeps his head down but his eyes open. He climbs his way through the ranks of the Galra Empire, fights the war that needs to be fought in every way he can. Thace works alongside him, when they’re on the same ship. There’s enough to be done that Ulaz doesn’t often think about the unreadable words etched onto the underside of his wrist. There just is not time.

But there are - moments, still, when he wonders.

War is a tricky place to balance relationships; Thace and Antok are evidence enough. Ulaz isn’t eager for that. Still - what might that be like, to have someone thinking of him, constantly? To know that someone is _there,_ even distantly, even if they cannot talk. Someone out there, a friend if nothing else, in whatever form that might be. In quiet moments, despite how he tells himself it isn’t important, Ulaz still cannot help but wonder. 

But the time ticks on, and no one has any answers. This is war. The language of his soulmark is never added to the universal translators, and so bit by bit Ulaz moves on.

Until the day that, suddenly, it is.

Most people in the service of Emperor Zarkon hide their soulmarks. It’s easy enough for Ulaz to follow suit, with skintight sleeves and the simple ease of don’t ask, don’t tell. What this means is he doesn’t notice the exact moment his words change from _unreadable_ to _translated._ He doesn’t notice immediately when the translators are updated. Ulaz only notices that evening when undressing. He glances at his wrist out of habit - a forlorn indulgence of two seconds - and freezes, gaping.

The words stand out, fully readable, fully translated. Three words, as plain as day.

“What is it?” Thace asks, when Ulaz pounds frantically on the door of his quarters. “What is wrong?”

Ulaz barely waits for the door to close behind him before thrusting out his left wrist, palm up, fingers curled. _Don’t hurt me_ is scribbled across the underside of his wrist, handwritten in narrow, bold strokes. 

_Don’t hurt me._

Thace, for his part, gawks appropriately.

“Precisely,” Ulaz says, weak.

“When did this happen?” Thace asks, dropping Ulaz’s wrist.

“I do not know,” Ulaz says. Thace crosses to his terminal; begins pulling up data immediately. Ulaz follows, legs numb.

This - is happening. For the first time, Ulaz dares to truly hope. This could actually happen. Someone, somewhere - whatever language his words were in, the Galra Empire has finally gained access to it. Somewhere, somehow - the Empire has a hold of someone who speaks the same language as the words written on Ulaz’s wrist. Somehow, some way, the Empire has found _someone_ who speaks the same language as Ulaz’s soulmark, if not the person themselves.

Ulaz only has to find out who.

 

Shiro wins his first fight in the arena, of course. After he wins the second - a terrible fight against a creature with two heads, slithering like a snake - he’s taken to a small room, still covered in sticky blood. He’s held down, one sentry pinning his arms with the electrocution baton pressed firmly against the small of Shiro’s back, while a second droid injects something into Shiro’s neck. He screams - 

_“Injection complete,”_ says the droid. Shiro’s so surprised he forgets to fight, jaw slack, limbs loose. _“Translator device 98-A3 is active.”_

“Wait,” Shiro blurts. His neck stings, burning where the injection had gone in. “Wait - what did you say?”

_“Congratulations on your victory, Champion,”_ the droid explains, in an utter monotone. _“Return him to his cell.”_

As he’s roughly marched back to his cell, the cacophony of sounds that used to just be mindless white noise are decipherable. What Shiro’d thought was mindless clicking from the sentries as they pass another group is a language: _“all clear in sublevel 8,”_ and _“initiating lockdown sequence,”_ after they pass through a heavy door. Shiro gapes as a radio crackles _(“Unit Beta-9-1, fetch the Commander - ”)_ before the door to the cell block slams closed, and he’s ushered yet along. A prisoner yells from a cell Shiro’s passed every single time, screaming as usual - _“why won’t anyone help, he’s dying, please, please -”_ and on, and on, and on.

It isn’t until Shiro’s shoved back into his cell, the cuffs around his wrists released, that he realizes.

There’s a rip in the fabric after the last battle. Shiro grips just below it and rolls up his sleeve, trying not to make the tear worse. For how stupidly skintight the material is, it’s all he has. He can’t afford to ruin it further. Shiro rolls up his sleeve to his elbow and stares at the finally, _finally_ legible words written on his arm.

_Hold still._

Shiro gapes, staring. His knees give out; he sinks down onto the hard shelf that serves him as a bed, collapsing. _Hold still -_ what does that mean? Not _be_ still? Are these words of comfort, spoken in some unknown situation that Shiro can’t fathom? Why not _be_ still - surely that would be more reassuring, more suited to - to anything - 

Shiro stares at the words twisting around his forearm, turns his arm again and again as if that could change their meaning. As if that would make any of this make _sense._

_Hold still._

He can read the words now, sure, but Shiro’s no better off than before. _Hold still -_ from what? Because of - what?

What does this mean?

 

Ulaz marks down the date his words become legible; writes down the time, even if that data is not entirely accurate. He combs through the databases of new alliances to the Empire, new planets discovered, new visitors or prisoners and all of the above. Searching, searching, searching.

It is a long process. Thace helps, when he can. The Blade does as well, once Ulaz gets the word back to Kolivan. The bonds of brotherhood between the Blade are vital and irreplaceable, but no bond is stronger than that of one’s soulmate. Everyone understands. Everyone is helping.

Ulaz still must maintain appearances, unfortunately. He was already incredibly busy to begin with: this new revelation, while a gift, is a further strain on tight resources. Still he perseveres, refuses to complain. He’s transferred from ship to ship within the Galra empire, from Sendak to Prorok’s to Sendak’s again. With firm dedication Ulaz claws his way up the ranks, gaining more and more access to newer databases, new information, new hope. He’s promoted, again and again. Thace becomes Lieutenant Commander. Ulaz wins a spot on Zarkon’s ship, a medical researcher and a caretaker. 

He doesn’t visit the Arena for a while. Ulaz has little interest in the gladitorial ‘entertainment’, in the forced battles of one bloodthirsty prisoner against a desperate other. Besides, he does not have time. It’s only when Thace, newly transferred to Zarkon’s ship as well, insists on Ulaz joining him that Ulaz agrees. 

A Champion, the Galra say. A small species, but absolutely fierce.  Thace stands next to Ulaz in the arena seats, easily keeping a straight face as Ulaz struggles to keep his jaw from dropping. Ulaz watches this Champion fight, watches him refuse to kill, watches him win. Again, and again, and again.

The words on his wrist itch with curiosity.

 

Ulaz enters the Champion’s data into the search engine later that night. All kinds of clippings and newsreports ping into existence, populating his screen. The Champion is of a previously unknown species, found on a small moon in the R-809A system. He was brought on board with two others, both of whom are now in the labor camps. From his original group the Champion alone remains on Zarkon’s ship, fighting, fighting, and fighting.

Ulaz carefully cross-references the date the Champion was brought in.

It matches.

A surge of hope flutters in Ulaz’s double-hearts, one he quickly stamps down. It resurges, a bit shyer, still true. While Ulaz is certain the Champion cannot be his soulmate, if Ulaz can get the Champion alone then the Champion might be willing - perhaps - to tell Ulaz about the moon he was found on. About the Champion’s home. About his people.Maybe the Champion even knows who Ulaz’s soulmate is. All Ulaz has to do is get him alone.

It is a dangerous idea, but Ulaz has never been known for playing it safe.

 

 

Fate has other plans.

 

Time marches on. Despite all his best efforts, Ulaz is unable to wrangle such a meeting. He’s reassigned - “promoted” - to Haggar’s department. Ulaz keeps his head down, learns, and waits. Keeps trying. In the arena and the prisoner cells Shiro fights, and lives, and lives, and fights. Each night both of them stare at the newly-clarified words on their wrists, pondering, wondering, hoping.

Miracles have happened for other people. Surely this could happen for them. Surely.

Surely?

 

Then one day Shiro almost doesn’t win. 

Ulaz misses the fight, for a reason he’ll never entirely remember. All he will recall is the summons, early for a shift: an emergency, the sentry explains. An opportunity. Haggar requires your presence immediately. 

Ulaz cancels a rendezvous with Thace, and heads down.

 

The surgery is a nightmare.

Ulaz has worked with Haggar enough by now to know that it’s never pleasant, never good. Her experiments are ruthlessly cruel, and her “creations,” her “gifts,” even more so. Most subjects who undergo one of her procedures die, either on the table or shortly thereafter. Haggar is not known for her benevolence.

Which is why when Ulaz steps into Haggar’s lab, and spots the glistening metal of Haggar’s latest experimental limb set off to the side, he doesn’t have much hope for the poor soul about to receive it. Mentally he starts distancing himself from the task ahead. This job is easier with distance; he _has_ to put distance between himself and the work. It is the only way to scrape by under Haggar’s notice. It is the only way to survive.

Haggar is already there, of course, murmuring quiet orders to her druids. The patient is there, too, already strapped down to the table, already begging.

“No, please - whatever you’re doing, please -”

Ulaz’s very blood chills in his veins.

_No._

The Champion is the one strapped to the table, metallic restraints gleaming at his wrists. The wrist of his right arm is badly mangled, bleeding and torn at an angle unnatural for his species. Something bit him, the skin blackened and burned at the puncture site just visible above what remains of his hand.

The wound is severe. If the Champion is to survive, the arm cannot remain. No wonder Haggar has decided to couple this moment with an experiment. Without intervention, the Champion is done for.

And with him, Ulaz’s only hope of truly identifying the language on his own wrist.

The words under his fur burn. Unbidden, his feet moving without conscious direction, Ulaz steps forwards across the room.

“No,” the Champion moans, again. Tears streak down his face, tracking through the dirt marred across his cheeks. He’s been in the arena for so long, now, so many times and Ulaz has never managed a chance to speak with him. There’s a new wound stretching across the Champion’s face, too, new since Ulaz saw him last - new from _today,_ it appears, a still-bleeding gash over the bridge of the Champion’s nose. “No, please - _please, don’t - "_

And then somehow,

inexplicably,

time slows down.

Ulaz has heard of this moment.

The Champion looks up, and their eyes meet for the first time. A visceral spark jolts through Ulaz, not painful, more a shiver. A warning. A breath, taken before the storm.

“Don’t hurt me,” the Champion begs, and the words on Ulaz’s wrist burn, flaring with a hiss deep into his soul. It’s all he can do not to stagger backwards, not to suck in a desperate breath of air that he didn’t need one moment earlier. His hearts pound in his chest, in sync, alarmed. A whisper, realized. A call, finally received.

This is his soulmate.

This poor person strapped to the table, strapped down and defenseless and hurt. This person, who’s caught Haggar’s eye in a way Ulaz would not wish on his worst enemy. The Champion, brought in from a backwater moon on the exact same day that Ulaz’s words became legible. The Champion himself, not Ulaz’s hoped-for informant but _Ulaz’s soulmate._ Here, in front of him, real and alive.

“Doctor,” one of Haggar’s druids purrs, materializing at Ulaz’s side. Only the strictest, _strictest_ of his training keeps Ulaz from flinching. “Is there a problem? Haggar is eager to begin.”

The Champio—Ulaz’s _soulmate_ has no idea, yet. He’s still struggling against his restraints, chest heaving in frightened gasps for air, panic tight in his shoulders and desperate in his eyes. If his soulmark is burning, it’s probably impossible to feel under that terrible bite.

Aware of the Druid’s gaze, painfully cognizant that across the room Haggar has finished her conversation, Ulaz steps closer to the table. To the - prisoner. To -

The Druids are watching, Haggar frowns, drifting nearer. Ulaz cannot blow his cover. He can’t. He mustn’t. He -

He cannot resist. Ulaz lays one large hand on his soulmate’s forehead.

“Hold still,” Ulaz says.

His soulmate’s eyes widen impossibly. His jaw drops. For a single moment the two of them stare at one another, alone, alarmed. The spark that shivered down Ulaz’s spine is a current, a jolt so physical it hurts because this,

this,

this is everything. It’s a piece, sliding home. A drawer, fitting shut. A knot, tightly tied and a circuit gloriously whole. What passes between Ulaz and the man on the table is everything, a bridge, an anchor, an answer and a hope. It’s more than just a moment. This is all Ulaz has wanted and all he’s never had and all he is desperately about to lose.

Unless he can pull off a miracle.

“Doctor,” Haggar commands, now ready at the foot of the table. Ulaz’s soulmate has stopped struggling; he’s staring up at Ulaz with slack-jawed surprise, a badly-hidden echo of Ulaz’s own emotions. The reality of the situation has never been more clear.

There is only one subject far more fascinating to Haggar’s experiments than both her robeasts and her limb-fusions combined.

Soulmates.

Ulaz has to act fast. There is no time and no choice.

“Wait,” Ulaz’s soulmate breathes, eyes narrowing with a hope so deep it hurts to look at, “Are you - ”

Ulaz forces the words past his lips.

“We are ready,” Ulaz says, and signals to the waiting sentry to proceed with the injection.

“No,” Ulaz’s soulmate starts, bucking frantically against his restraints. Mercifully the drugs take effect quickly. Ulaz’s soulmate’s eyes drift closed. His struggles cease, and he falls limply back to the table, out cold. Unconscious, and unaware of so much.

Ulaz removes his hand from his soulmate’s forehead. Tucks it against his back so the faint tremor in his fingertips is unnoticeable.

He _doesn’t even know his soulmate’s name._

“Why did you give the order?” Haggar asks, a snarl. “I wished the Champion awake for this.”

“I misunderstood,” Ulaz lies. His soulmate’s head tilts to the side, features limp with blessed unconsciousness. Betrayal still etches across his face, stark under the blood. It stings, but Ulaz has no choice. They are not out of the woods yet.

 _They._ Of all things, and of all times.

“With all due respect,” Ulaz says. Somehow his voice is steady; he tucks one hand in the other behind his back. “Every other one of your experiments has not survived, once their pain receptors catch up with their brain. Perhaps performing the procedure while unconscious will allow his feeble mind not to overload, and provide you with a…successful experiment.”

The words hurt. Ulaz has no choice. His soulmate is unconscious on the table before him, but his soulmate is alive.

Haggar studies him for a long, long moment. Ulaz tucks his hands tighter and bids their shaking to be still.

“Very well,” Haggar says, at last. Ulaz’s training keeps his shoulders rigid, hides his feverish wave of relief. “I have nothing to lose should this experiment fail. You will monitor his ‘pain levels’, both now and through recovery. If this experiment fails it will be on your head as well.”

“Understood,” Ulaz says. Manages. He casts one last look down at his soulmate, at the pale and still features of the person Ulaz desperately needs to stay alive.

Ulaz will not let Haggar’s experiment kill his soulmate. Not when Ulaz just found him. There are no other options.

_Forgive me._

Ulaz takes his place for the procedure.

 

Shiro wakes up in blinding agony.

There is a bandage wrapped around his face, pressing lightly along his cheeks and by his ears. His arm burns, but not in the way his parents always said it would when he found his _soulmate._ This burns right up from his wrist which is _gone to his elbow which isn’t his to what’s left of his real arm, burning, it hurts, everything is wrong and his soulmark and his words and his soulmate -_

_“Hold still.”_

Had Shiro imagined that, too? Had it really happened? The pain before is nothing compared to the phantom pull of fingers that aren’t there, answered instead by a metal set of joints - by fingers that move just like the old ones should but send screaming spikes of agony up his nerves. Had he imagined the figure leaning over him, the warm press of a palm to his head? Had he imagined the jolt, the shock, the quiet calm that settled over him from the gaze of two yellow eyes and the utterance of two simple words?

_Hold still._

Shiro breathes, somehow. He cradles his new wrist in the palm of his left hand and shakes, bent over, but breathing. There’s a fire in his arm, yes, but an ache in his heart that’s always been there is gone. It’s replaced by the - by the oddest feeling. A warmth, maybe. A yearning, so deep it hurts. A burn and a pull and a completion, bitter but true.

His soulmate is a Galra. His soulmate was there, and Shiro found him. He said Shiro’s words, and then he took them.

Shiro curls into a ball, new repulsive arm held as far away from him as possible, and cries.

 

When they do meet at last, there is so little to be said.

 

Ulaz visits Shiro’s cell in the medical wing alone, dismissing even the sentries. He enters Shiro’s cell reluctantly, cautiously. Shiro looks up at the intrusion, the movement sharp. His mouth falls open a little; surprise, yes, at the visitor. Ulaz can relate.

For a long moment they stare at each other. So much already lies between them - and yet, somehow, all of it pales in the face of finally being in one another’s company. In the face of all that has come before them. Of all that has happened to bring them to this moment. Shiro stares at Ulaz, and Ulaz stares back.

This is it.

Slowly, carefully, Ulaz steps all the way into the cell. Steps forward to Shiro’s cot, a luxury afforded in the medical cells where Ulaz has ordered Shiro remain until he is healed from the surgery. Shiro does not look away as Ulaz draws near, slow step by slow step, until he is directly beside the cot Shiro sits on. Shiro cranes his neck up. Their eyes are locked, fully, for the second time.

“I am Ulaz,” Ulaz says, and waits.

“I’m Shiro,” Shiro says, at last. Quietly, and with difficulty. “You took my hand.”

“It was the only way,” Ulaz says, the truth. He will not lie to his soulmate. Shiro deserves more. “No species has ever survived the witch’s experiments before. You are the first.”

“So I’m supposed to be grateful?” Shiro snaps. He’s shivering, the start of a fever borne from the implant embedded in his skin. Ulaz frowns.

“You are alive,” Ulaz says. “I know the situation is less than ideal - ”

“You took my _hand,”_ Shiro repeats. Shock is setting in: he’s shaking, a tremor in his muscles and shoulders that has nothing to do with the temperature of the air. He’s staring down at his wrist now, at the metal gleaming under the cold lights of the laboratory cell. “You took my _words._ How am I - how are we - ”

 _We._ The very word sends chills down Ulaz’s spine.

Carefully, so slowly, Ulaz says, “But, perhaps - you do not need your words anymore, do you?”

Shiro looks up - looks down, for Ulaz has knelt in front of him. Shiro gapes down at him, startled.

Slowly, giving Shiro every chance to pull away, Ulaz reaches out. Lays his hands over Shiro’s, both flesh and metal. Shiro’s breath hitches in his throat. Compared to Ulaz, Shiro’s hands are so, so small.

“I am here,” Ulaz says, softly. These are, now, the only words he has. This is all he can think to say. “If you will have me.”

It’s not right, and it’s not enough. It’s nothing like Ulaz remembers from Thace’s story with Antok. This is nothing like the meeting of Shiro’s parents. This is a moment unique to Ulaz and Shiro, a sharing and a journey for them and them alone.

It’s not right, and it’s not enough. In another world, perhaps things would have been different. In another reality perhaps there wouldn’t have been injury, or suffering, accompanying what should be something so pure and engrained in deep joy. Perhaps somewhere else Ulaz would not have needed to assist with Shiro’s arm. Perhaps somewhere else Shiro would have sought Ulaz out first, or saved him from a fate worse than death. Perhaps, somewhere else, neither of them have words inked into skin and fur. Perhaps, somewhere else, they would never have met at all.

But here, they have. It’s not right, what brought them together. It’s not enough, what they have now. And yet -

\- and yet, somehow, it is.

Words cannot make up for what Ulaz has done, exactly, but words brought them together. Words carry them for a fragile time, when Ulaz takes Shiro’s new metal wrist in hand and whispers apologies. Words stutter, when Shiro’s fingers trace shakily over the symbols of Ulaz’s own soulmark. _Don’t hurt me,_ written in fragile curves and dashes against the fur of Ulaz’s wrist. _Hold still,_ believed and now gone.

When words fail, Ulaz tugs Shiro to him gently, so, so slow and so, so careful. Shiro falls into his embrace regardless.  Ulaz gives Shiro every chance to pull away but Shiro doesn’t; he sinks into the hug with a choked whimper, desperate and upset. Ulaz wraps his arms around Shiro and holds tight.

“Please,” Shiro begs then, voice cracking, words choked. “Please, just – please.”

When words fail, Shiro cries. He cries when Ulaz holds him, gentle at first and then fierce, as if his arms could shelter Shiro from the rest of this – from what he’s already endured. Shiro cries, overwhelmed and desperate for reassurance, for answers, for hope. Shiro cries when Ulaz holds him, mourning a set of words he no longer has. Mourning a revelation, denied to both of them for so long. Their soulmates have been found, yes, but at such a price.

Shiro cries. Ulaz holds him, one large hand gently cupping the back of Shiro’s head. Shiro clings to Ulaz, his left hand digging desperately into the fabric of Ulaz’s shirt. Trusting, against all evidence, all reason, all logic. They’re all the other has. They’re soulmates, even if Shiro no longer has the words trailing neatly up his forearm. Ulaz’s own handwriting, gone forever. A soulmark, lost. 

Ulaz could not prevent that. He couldn’t prevent this. 

But he will make up for it.

He will.

“I am here,” Ulaz murmurs, holding, holding, holding. In his arms Shiro cries; Ulaz’s own eyes are wet, too. They cling to one another. Ulaz holds. “I am here.”

 

Too soon, too soon, their time is up.

“I must leave,” Ulaz says, soft. They’ve shifted fully onto the hard shelf of a cot at some point, Shiro still tucked into Ulaz’s arms. Shiro is shaking again, the effects of shock and fever taking their course. The connection point of his new prosthetic is swollen, an angry red. He will be in medical for some time, if Ulaz has his say. 

“Will you come back?” Shiro asks. His voice is so small.

“I will,” Ulaz promises. “I will not leave you here.”

 

Thace opens the door to his quarters late that night to Ulaz, pale, distraught, the long claws of his hands shaking hard.

“I found him,” Ulaz whispers. “But I have made a terrible mistake.”

**Author's Note:**

> If you liked what you read, please consider leaving me a comment! Comments mean the world to me :) Either way, I'm very grateful for all of you who've taken the time this week to read this motley collection of assorted pieces. Thank you so much, and have a Happy Thanksgiving!


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